


Case 217: The Adventure Of The Quietest Place (1904)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [278]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Abuse, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Art, Coffee, Destiel - Freeform, Exhaustion, F/M, Family, Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, London, M/M, Military, Period Typical Attitudes, Photography, Racism, Scerek - Freeform, Threats, Trains, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-17 21:52:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18107198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: ֍ With barely a hundred days to go before their retirement, Sherlock and John travel to Shropshire to investigate some risqué photographs and a hair-raising disappearance – but who needs rescuing from whom?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Northern_Gryphon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northern_Gryphon/gifts).



> TW: Mention of spousal and filial abuse.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

_”'Clunton and Clunbury,”_   
_”Clungunford and Clun.”_   
_”Are the quietest places,”_   
_”Under the sun.'”_

I looked up in surprise at my beloved John. He really should have known better than to start reciting poetry at me before my second cup of coffee of a morning.

Third cup.

All right, my fifth. It was not as if I could marry the coffee-machine; as I had so amply demonstrated when John had said that he could do at least some things that the machine most definitely could not. Although with the ever onwards march of technology, who knew what they could come up with in the future? A robotic lover that could help you recover with instant coffee and bacon.... you never knew with technology going the way it was.

“What has brought this on?” I asked, diverting myself from some Very Happy Thoughts.

“The fellow waiting to see us”, he said waving the card that had just been sent up. “General Roland McCall of His Majesty's Loyal Shropshire Regiment. He has a house in Craven Arms in that county and is often in the newspapers.”

“For good reasons or ill?” I asked.

“He is one of those loud generals who is always sounding off about the Dreadful Decline In Standards These Days”, John said in a mock military tone that made me smile. “His wife passed recently; I know that they had five sons and a daughter. The daughter Iris married my old colleague Owen Pardew's grandson, another Owen, and she has nearly finished training in our profession. The son Scott has I believe just joined his father's regiment.”

I smiled knowingly.

“What else have you gathered from those social pages that you only very rarely glance at in passing?” I inquired. “When of course you have the time and if you just happen to be in the vicinity of a newspaper open at that particular set of pages.” 

He looked at me frostily; if he pouted then I could not be held responsible for any horizontal or even vertical repercussions, waiting general or no waiting general!

“A military family through and through”, he said, his eyes widening slightly as he divined my feelings quite accurately, “including various brothers and cousins several of whom are also in the military. Scottish in origin as the name suggests but that branch has been in the Welsh March for many years now. Owen told me that the general was not best pleased that his daughter joined my profession but as his late wife had a large sum as of her own right I suppose that she was able to skirt around that.”

“I wonder why he has come all the way from the far reaches of Mercia?” I mused.

“We had better have him up and see”, John said.

֍

I held a variable view of the British Army and not just because of their shabby treatment of my twin brother Jimmy. Like all oversized institutions I expected some degree of corruption and mismanagement – those who claimed larger establishments were more efficient mysteriously never seemed to get round to providing any evidence of their claims, I had always noted – but while I admired the individual fighting soldier I was less well disposed towards those further up the food chain. 

General Roland Theodosius Alistair McCall seemed set on reinforcing that belief. He was in his late forties, a bluff white-haired fellow with a handlebar moustache and a seemingly permanent scowl. Presumably our famous fireside chair was insufficiently commodious to house his ego as he sat down on the couch without being invited and stared hard at us. I tried not to think of what John and I had done on the same couch two days ago, almost exactly where the fellow was sitting.... thank the Lord for my innate flexibility!

“Fellow at my club says you can find things”, he said bluntly. “My boy Scott has gone missing.”

A curious thing way to put it, I thought.

“Have you informed the police about this?” I asked politely. He reddened but answered.

“Damn coward ran away from his regiment when it was stationed at Clun, not far from the house”, he said. “No backbone the young generation, although at least my other four boys are all right.”

The fellow had barely been there a minute yet he was already grating on my nerves. And he had the same sort of shiftiness that told me there was probably a lot to whatever had happened that he would not be telling me. I made a mental note to send to Miss Charlotta Bradbury as soon as he was out of the room, which event could not come soon enough.

“So you wish for me to find him?” I asked.

Our unpleasant visitor reddened for some reason. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a small booklet which he passed over to me.

“Page seventeen”, he said shortly.

Thinking to myself that good manners were clearly not a perquisite for advancement in the modern British Army, I turned to the suggested page in what was a catalogue for a small art gallery that I had visited with John on one occasion. It featured a photograph of a naked young gentleman entitled 'Sir Come-Scribe'; he was about twenty years of age with various pieces of clothing scattered nearby. The saucy fellow was very clearly of some flexibility from the way he was lying on a pommel-horse and holding one leg almost vertical, with only the top of his departed trousers close to the camera covering his modesty. And then only just!

John, who could see the picture from where he was sitting, coughed for some reason.

“That's McCullough who is in the same barracks as my son”, the general said. “Saw him one time the rat; the family is Irish which just about figures. Disgusting filth! I sent their sergeant-major a letter demanding to know what the hell was going on and saying that I was coming to see him pretty damn quick, and he wrote back to say that the rat denied it was him and oh by the way my son had run off. I want my boy dragged back to his regiment and made a man; you can go sort it out for me and I will be there this weekend to see your findings. My card.”

“One moment”, I said. “I will need rather more if I am to be of assistance. For one thing, who is this sergeant-major?”

He frowned at that question for some reason.

“A decent enough stick called Jones”, he said. “But he was shilly-shallying around on the frankly pathetic of excuse of getting a cast put on his broken leg, which is a damn poor show if you ask me.”

I looked pointedly at him.

“You are asking me to go to the Welsh March and look for someone called Jones?” I said archly. “That is, to coin a phrase, a needle in several shires full of hay-fields.”

He scowled at my wit, then at John for his poorly suppressed snigger.

“Jones is back with the regiment in Hereford now”, he said. “Wellington Barracks. You can go there. You will inform me of your progress.”

He stood and left without as much as a goodbye. Apparently we were expected to take his case.

“It would serve him right if you did nothing”, John said. 

“Unfortunately there is the boy to consider”, I said ruefully. “Would you like to be in his shoes when or if his father catches up with him?”

John winced. He got my point.

֍

There was to be another and rather surprising development in the case before we could decamp to the March. Just after I had sent out to Miss Bradbury for whatever she had on our unpleasant client we had an unexpected but welcome visitor, to wit Mr. Peter Wolf whose father we had helped a couple of years back. 

“There has not been a problem with your father?” I asked. I had pursuant to the matter of the stolen gold bars made arrangements to prevent any retaliatory action being taken against Mr. Thomas Wolf, but as I said one could never trust large institutions.

“No, he and Colt are as bad as ever”, Mr. Wolf grinned. “They were kind enough to take the children for a week recently so I could take Edie to Scotland after the birth of Octavian; she was a little down after being advised to have no more children although I was quite relieved if truth be told; eight of the little things running around is more than enough for me. Plus to see Colt weeping buckets with his godson in his arms – it was wonderful. Although it is family that brings me here today.”

“Go on”, I said.

“You had a visit earlier from General McCall.”

“How did you know that?” John asked. Mr. Wolf sighed.

“Unhappily we have a connection”, he said. “My Aunt Brunnhilda – and yes, she really is like her name! - she married a Welsh corporal called Huwel Jones and they had several children including a son, Bryn.”

He caught my expression and nodded.

“Yes, the Sergeant-Major Bryn Jones in charge of the regiment when young Private McCall decided to abscond”, he said ruefully. “The general came to see Father when he got to London yesterday; naturally being the thug that he is he commented on certain lifestyle choices and was forcibly thrown out by Colt. He can get angry when provoked for all that he is such a big softie around his 'Cuddle Bunny'.”

We both smiled at the appellation.

“And you knew that he would come to us next”, I said.

“He told Father that someone at one of his clubs had recommended you”, Mr. Wolf said, “before he went and opened his mouth once too often.”

“Have you ever met Sergeant-Major Jones?” I asked. Our visitor shook his head.

“But I do know that he married some years back to a local lady, a Miss Ruth Hale”, he said. “Besides, I would not wish the general on my worst enemy.”

I looked pointedly at him. He blushed.

“Maybe just a short visit to my mother-in-law?” he admitted ruefully.

We both laughed.

֍


	2. Chapter 2

It had been a long and trying journey from London to the Welsh March, especially for John who had been fucked about a dozen times and had had to have a sit-down at Hereford Station before he could make it out to a cab. Although his face when one of the porters had offered him a wheelchair – hah! I had also had time to read the copious notes on our client that Miss Bradbury had managed to assemble in the short time available to her. Very interesting; they opened up several possibilities to resolve matters to the satisfaction of just about everyone except, of course, our deeply unpleasant client.

The British sergeant-major is of course a legend in his own time, and Mr. Peter Wolf's cousin Sergeant-Major Bryn Jones looked very much a typical example when we met him at the Wellington Barracks just outside the town of Hereford. He was a tall spare fellow in his mid-thirties with light-brown hair and green eyes a shade lighter than John's. He seemed affable enough but that might well change given the circumstances.

“I am making inquiries about a soldier who recently left your regiment in an unauthorized manner”, I said. “One Private Scott McCall.”

There was no visible reaction in the sergeant-major's appearance and yet I knew that he had tensed up.

“General McCall's boy”, he said. “I was having this damn plaster put on at the time or as he would doubtless have described it to you, 'shilly-shallying about on the frankly pathetic excuse of a broken leg'.”

“But you were at Clun when the boy absconded?” I asked. 

He hesitated but nodded.

“The general asked you to find him, I suppose”, he said.

There was something not quite right about his answers. I paused and decided to change tack.

“You see, sir”, I said, “I admit that my knowledge of military matters is poor. But my knowledge of human nature does somewhat remedy that deficiency. I find it frankly incredible that any soldier could slip out of a barracks undetected - _unless he had received at least some help._

There. A definite flicker.

“I am going to take this opportunity to remind you of something”, I pressed. “The doctor and I always follow justice first and the law second. Having met the general I have little doubt that his youngest son was not happy at home, and it is my guess that he went into the army to escape his father. If you trust us the truth of what really happened, I promise that we shall put the boy's interests first and foremost.”

I wondered for a moment if he would continue to resist but he sighed and nodded.

“You must understand, gentlemen”, he said, “that I have been a sergeant-major for over a decade. They keep wanting to promote me but I have seen the next level up and I hate it. I think that I am good at what I do and I enjoy doing it. Most times.”

“One thing that I love in my job is finding that special something in a man that I can ignite and that will make him into a soldier. Scott, bless the lad, did not have as much as a scruple of it. As you say he came into the army solely to get away from his father, something that did not surprise me in the least as the blackguard has a dreadful reputation across the March. I knew full well that Scott would fail, and I knew that when he did it would not be pretty.”

I thought for a moment.

“There is another matter which complicates things somewhat”, I said carefully. “It concerns certain artistic photographs.”

He blushed fiercely. His next words surprised me considerably.

“It was nothing improper”, he said a little defensively. “Ruth does photography as a hobby and some of the boys agreed to pose for her. We made it all proper beforehand; if any money was made then they would be guaranteed half. I just had no idea the damn things would be so popular that my friend down in London would get a gallery to take some. And now the general has gotten his teeth into it, nothing will let the blackguard let go.”

“I rather think that I might persuade him so to do”, I said. “Can you tell us what happened to Private McCall?” 

His smile faded but he nodded.

“It all came about because of Ruth's half-brother Drake”, he said. “He has a farm in the Clun Valley where we were stationed at the time of Scott's disappearance. Their eldest son Derek reached eighteen recently and came to visit me here just after. He had been having some trouble with some of the local youths who had been teasing him over his hair so I had some of the boys drop round and put things to rights.”

“What was wrong with his hair?” I asked.

“His body-hair”, the sergeant-major amended. “Hairiest fellow you ever did see; takes after his father in that respect. Some time after that we had moved to Clun and that was when it happened. Pitt, my batman, told me that Scott was suddenly very keen on surveying, that is going round the area on his own to create a map of the place and anything of interest. It was not so much that he was not athletic – he always looked a couple of meals away from starvation although his figures were healthy enough – but this sudden keenness to get out and about worried me. So one day I followed him.”

“I had a hunch what he was up to and I was right. He went to my sister's farm which is not far from the village of Clungunford, one of the ones that was supplying us food and drink for our time in the area. Derek came out to meet him – _and they kissed!”_

I looked pointedly at the sergeant-major who shrugged his soldiers.

“That sort of thing happens in the barracks, sirs”, he said, “and I have no mind to it provided it does not interfere in what happens on the battlefield. McCullough, the fellow Ruth did for 'Sir Come-Scribe', he is one and the other fellows accept that; they know he would always have their backs in the field. But I could see the general either having a coronary or being tried for his son's murder – or mine - if he found out. The boy hurried back to the barracks but of course I was there long before him.”

“He did not see you?” I asked. The soldier shook his head.

“I want what is best for all the boys under my care”, he said heavily. “For ninety-nine per cent of them that is a life in the army; it is rare that the selection process lets anyone unsuitable through unless, like Scott, they have family in the service He will never be a soldier but he is still one of my boys and I care for the fellow. Although I am sure you can see that if the general catches up with him it will not end well.”

“I would like to ask something at this point”, I said. “Why did Private McCall choose to disappear so near to his father's home? Was it because of the general's discovery of the photograph?”

“Partly”, the sergeant-major admitted. “His mother had been ill for the past year and he was often visiting her, although as I am sure you can imagine he had to time his visits to when his bully of a father was not there.”

He looked at me pointedly. I knew from Miss Bradbury's folder just what he was not telling me there, namely what the general had likely done to his own son at times. Perhaps a visit to borrow some of Mr. Godfreyson's boys to help 'remind' the general what was and what was not acceptable behaviour.

“Then I got the letter from the blackguard demanding to know what the hell was going on”, he said. “I knew what would happen when I told Scott; sure enough Derek came over that same day and they slipped out of the camp that evening. I had Pitt on duty with McCullough as I knew they could both be trusted to not see what needed to be not seen. My sister let me know he was with her the next day; they live as I said in an isolated place so there is little chance of his being found even in a search.”

“I shall need to visit your nephew and brother-in-law”, I said, “and ensure that they do have the boy's best interests at heart. But do not worry, sergeant-major. If all is as it seems then I have a range of moves to throw the general off his son's track, and indeed to make sure that he stops looking for him completely. Nor shall I forget Private McCullough; no-one deserves to have the general on their trail.”

“Thank you, sirs.”

֍


	3. Chapter 3

It was a pleasant journey of a little over an hour from Hereford to Craven Arms, followed by a short carriage ride rather than waiting for a train to traverse just one stop. The countryside in this part of Shropshire, well away from any railway lines, was I thought like that poem of John's, quiet and rather charming. Parliament Farm lay at the end of a narrow track a little way west of the village of Clungunford.

“An unusual name”, I remarked.

“There was once a parliament held at Acton Burnell, which is not far from here”, John said. “In the thirteenth century, when parliaments could be held wherever the king was rather than always in London.”

“My mine of historical information”, I smiled at him. 

He smiled at that.

“A mine into which I intend to delve _very_ deeply”, I added, my voice suddenly dropping, “all the way back to London Town!” 

And now he had to steady his breathing just moments before we met Mr. Derek Hale – and Mr. Scott McCall, late of His Majesty's Loyal Shropshire Regiment.

֍

We had to open a gate to enter the farm buildings themselves and the obscenely loud creak must have drawn the attention of the occupants of that building. Three gentlemen came out and even the worst consulting detective in the world could have worked out who was who. Mr. Drake Hale was a larger, older and broader version of his son Derek who was skulking behind him; the sergeant-major had not understated just how hirsute both men were. Mr. Scott McCall was similar in build to his friend and if anything even more slender, although considerably less hairy. He was most regrettably possessed of what was presumably meant to have been an attempt at a moustache, but we all make mistakes when young.

“Greetings”, I said. “We have come from Sergeant-Major Jones. May we go inside to escape this shower and talk things over like gentlemen?”

“How do I know you're not from Scott's father?” Mr. Drake Hale demanded.

“The general did request my services”, I conceded noting how both boys turned pale at that. “However, having seen how things are I am inclined to deliver him justice. Although maybe not the sort that he is expecting.”

Mr. Drake Hale seemed uncertain but nodded and led the way inside, although I noted that he kept his huge frame between us and his charges. Inside he poured drinks and we sat on opposite sides of a table, his son and his son's friend either side of him.

“The key thing here”, I said, “is to persuade the general to stop looking for his son.”

Mr. Drake Hale laughed hollowly.

“Going to travel to the Moon while you are at it?” he said.

“I intend to kill off Mr. Scott McCall here.”

“What?” Mr. Drake Hale roared.

“Or rather to kill off his identity”, I said turning to the elder boy. “When I see the general in London next I will show him papers that prove you left the area and tried to leave the country. I do not know your destination but I am sure that somewhere soon a ship sailing from these islands will be lost and, by an _amazing_ coincidence the passenger lists will show young Mr. McCall will be shown to have been a passenger on board.”

They all looked at me uncertainly.

“Why would you help me?” Mr. McCall said quietly.

“Because”, I said, “we follow justice before the law. I do not believe that you have had a good life up to now Mr. McCall, but I rather think that working here on the farm will remedy that. In a few weeks' time you will receive a set of official papers including a birth certificate from some friends of mine. Mr. Tyler Hale will be a distant cousin of the owner of this farm, so his living here will seem perfectly natural.”

Mr. Drake Hale smiled.

“Scott's middle name”, he said. “He is ours now and we will put some meat on those slender bones of his before long.”

Mr. Derek Hale moved round his father to sit next to his friend, and the two young men held each other while looking hopefully at me. I smiled reassuringly at them both, they deserved some happiness.

“Then it is our pleasure to wish you good day”, I said. “Once I have informed the general I will send a telegram to let you know all is well, and a letter covering what happened in more detail. Mr. Hale, I am trusting you with something most precious. Do not let me down.”

“I swear that I shall not!” the farmer said firmly.

֍

We stopped at Wellington Barracks again on the way back to tell Sergeant-Major Jones what we had done and intended to do, and promised to keep him informed until matters were finally resolved. I felt once again that those in the lower reaches of our armed forces were in some ways far better human beings that those in the upper ones.

John may have described me as not one of the better human beings after I clipped a cock-ring into him shortly after we had left Hereford Station and spent the whole journey teasing him. It took him five minutes to stand and get out of the coach, and the yelp he gave when he stepped down onto the platform had two porters come running. And he actually cried in the bumpy cab back to Baker Street, from which he took a full three minutes to get out. I would have added a remark about our landlady Mrs. Lindberg's smirking, but I thought of that knife collection and very wisely decided against it.

֍

There remained the unpleasant task of dealing with General McCall. I laid in some extra bath salts as I always felt, perhaps irrationally, that after dealing with a particularly unpleasant client I could 'wash them off' afterwards. And a bath with John's larger figure holding me in what was most definitely a manly embrace was always good, whatever the reason.

“I shall start with the photograph”, I told our obnoxious visitor. “I am afraid that it is not of Private McCullough at all, and had you charged into the barracks and accused him it would likely have ended very badly.”

“Dammit, sir....”

“The gentleman in the picture is one Mr. Ennis O'Callahan, also an Irishman”, I went on, determined to not let him speak any more than was necessary. “He hales from the same town as Mr. McCullough so I suppose that they may be distant cousins of some sort, but only Mr. O'Callahan has the most distinctive pattern of three moles in a line across his brazenly-displayed inner thigh. I saw Private McCullough and he was obliging enough to strip off for me; he has no such marks. And Mr. O'Callahan is distantly related to the Earl of Cavan who, I am sure I do not need to remind you, is renowned for his litigious ways. Had you accused even a distant relative of his you might well have found yourself in an expensive court case.”

“Harrumph!” he grunted, clearly displeased at my news. “You found my son though?”

“Yes.”

He looked at me expectantly.

“Where is he, damnation?”

“That, I am not going to tell you.”

He actually looked like he might well be in need of medical assistance from the way he was gasping at my answer. Still, I was sure that John would go and fetch a doctor for him if necessary. Fairly sure.

“What do you mean by that, sir?” the general demanded testily.

I picked up a large folder of papers and placed them on the table.

“As part of my inquiries I naturally had to check some details about _your_ family, General”, I said. “It seems that you descended to the base level of verbal and sometimes even physical abuse of your late wife, and then carried on such foul behaviour against your own son.”

“I.... I never....”

“I have to tell you”, I interrupted, “that as well as leaving your son and daughter all her moneys – something which you tried to contest in the courts but were told by several lawyers that you would fail – your late wife also kept a diary of your abuse. That diary was entrusted to her lawyers and copies have been passed on to both your son and daughter. You will not make any further attempts to track down your son, and you will cease your covert efforts to destroy your daughter's career as well. Should you persist in your current approach to either, they will have no choice but to reveal your base and utterly reprehensible behaviour to the newspapers. And to the society magazines.”

He was still gasping for breath, and giving us both a look of utter hatred. But he knew that he had been defeated, and stormed from the room slamming the door behind him.

I smiled at the sound from the bathroom; John was already running our bath.

 

Four months to go.

֍

_Postscriptum: The 'new' Mr. Tyler Hale wrote to me once all his paperwork had arrived saying how wonderfully happy he was and thanking me once more. And I left out one small – well, medium-sized - detail in the story in that I spoke privately to Sergeant-Major Jones and he and his wife agreed to come to London with his camera and reproduce her famous 'Sir Come-Scribe' work for me. Except the figure draped stark naked over a pommel-horse was not a young soldier but a deeply blushing English country doctor. What with that, the Reigate photograph and Mrs. Callington's drawing, I could probably open an art exhibition devoted to my love....._

_No way! He was all mine!_

֍

**Author's Note:**

> The verse at the start is the first four lines of the wonderfully-named 'Poem L' in Alfred Edward Houseman's _'A Shropshire Lad'_ (1896).


End file.
